Love and Other Four-Letter Words Read online

  “I can't think of anything that's mellow,” she said as she reached into her backpack for a water bottle, took a swig and turned to me. “What's mellow?”

  I stared at her for a second. Maybe she was thinking of “Mellow Yellow,” that old Donovan song that Dad used to listen to. I didn't say anything.

  “Maybe Jell-O?” She scrunched up her nose. “No … Jell-O always seems so nervous, all cold and wiggly.”

  As her dog began rolling in the wood chips, I released my grip on Moxie's collar. That's when I noticed that the girl was hurriedly glancing back and forth between Moxie and me, shaking her head.

  “I don't believe it,” she gasped. Her eyes were as round as quarters. “I just don't believe it!”

  “What?” I asked warily. Who was this girl, some kind of nutcase disguised as an ordinary teenager? I surveyed the dog run. Coffee Lady was fastening a harness onto her poodle, but Scaredy-Dog looked like he was settled in for the long haul. Great. Just the person to save my life. I can see him now, cluck-clucking his tongue, murmuring how dogs these days don't protect their owners.

  “You are the exact same dog as your dog!”

  “Huh?” I asked. Coffee Lady was opening the gate. Now's my chance for a quick getaway.

  “You are the exact same dog as your dog,” she repeated, breaking into a huge smile. “And so am I! That's very rare.”

  I must have given her a funny look because she quickly continued.

  “I possess a sixth sense for determining what kind of dog a person would be if they were a dog.” She gulped her water, leaned toward me and whispered, “Like that man over there.”

  I glanced covertly at Scaredy-Dog.

  “He's a basset hound.”

  I had to smile. Scaredy-Dog was the spitting image of a basset hound.

  “And you're a chocolate Lab, just like your dog.”

  I wasn't sure whether to be offended by a complete stranger telling me I looked like my dog.

  She must have read my mind because she quickly added, “It's a good thing. I'd much rather be a chocolate Lab than a Jack Russell terrier. But such are the hands we're dealt.”

  The girl reached into her backpack again, this time to fish out a gnarled old tennis ball. As she tossed it, her terrier scrambled away, depositing it at her feet an instant later. After a few rounds of this, Moxie lumbered over, shyly wagging her tail.

  “Do you want to throw it for her?”

  “No thanks. I'd probably just fling it backward.”

  “Not big into sports?”

  “Not ones with balls,” I said.

  “Me neither.” She giggled, throwing it all cockeyed this time, as if to exaggerate her incompetency.

  When Moxie retrieved the ball, she slobbered all over it. The girl recoiled, stretching her hand as far from her body as possible.

  “Ich!”

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “I forgot to warn you that she's a goobermeister.”

  “A goobermeister!” The girl was practically in hysterics. “I'll have to remember that!”

  Then she reached down and wiped her slimed hand on Moxie's shiny brown coat, adding that goobermeisters should get a taste of their own goober every now and then.

  I smiled again.

  “I'm Phoebe, by the way.”

  “And I'm Sammie.”

  “As in Sosa?”

  “No.” I paused, wrapping Moxie's leash around my hand. I hate having to explain the story behind my name, especially since the extent of the story is that my parents were spacing out. “As in Davis.”

  But all she said was: “Cool name! I love old Rat Pack movies.”

  We ended up chatting for a few more minutes as Phoebe continued throwing the ball out to the dogs. But after a while, my stomach began to rumble. I hadn't had a bite to eat yet, and I'm one of those people who wakes up with an appetite.

  “I'm going to head out,” I said, standing up. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” Phoebe reached over and scratched Moxie's ears. “Just so you know, I come here every morning at nine.”

  “Oh.”

  “What's the goobermeister's name, by the way?”

  “Moxie.”

  Phoebe grinned. “As in bold and sassy?”

  “I guess.” I had no clue what she was talking about, so I asked her, “What's your dog's name?”

  “Dogma.”

  “As in principles?” We actually learned about dogma in global studies last year, one of those things that you tuck away in the back of your head, like geometry, assuming you'll never have to use it again. Dogma seems like a strange name for a terrier, but who am I to talk? My dog is named after a prescription drug.

  “Bingo.” Phoebe laughed. “But not as in the dog the farmer had.”

  This time I laughed too.

  Mom was still in bed when I got home. She wasn't sleeping, but she was propped against some pillows reading Ten Days to Self-Esteem. Not a good sign. I have this new theory that I can judge Mom's emotional state by what book she's reading. Ever since her interviews a few days ago she's been devouring the amoebas of selfhelp. The ones that promise insta-healing. Hundredand-eighty-degree transformations. Feelin' blue? Step right up 'cuz we've got the remedy!

  It's all starting to sink in, I overheard her telling Shira on the phone. After Mom announced that she'd bombed the interviews, three in a row.

  When I asked Mom to clarify bombed, she began to cry. Something about Manhattan not being the same place she'd left fourteen years ago.

  I thought about saying Maybe you're the one who has changed, not the city. But judging from the way her chin was quivering, I had a feeling she was thinking the same thing.

  Shira had encouraged Mom to fax off thank-you notes anyway, emphasizing the high points in the interviews. But as Mom stared at the blinking cursor on the blank screen, she likened it to searching for an alpine peak in the Florida Everglades.

  I collapsed on the futon. Phoebe sure was a character. I know what Kitty would've called her. A freak. That's how she describes anyone who doesn't color within the lines, as she once put it. But when I informed her that not only was I a complete failure with coloring books when I was little, but I also broke the crayons, all she said was: Well, at least you tried. Freaks don't even try.

  I walked over to the windowsill, where I'd last sighted my dictionary. After excavating it from the bottom of a pile, I flipped through to the M's.

  Moxie: 1. vigor; verve; pep. 2. courage and boldness; nerve.

  How strange that no one has ever told me moxie is actually a real word! But then again, I never knew that every person has a dog archetype either.

  Just as I was setting down the dictionary, an envelope slipped out of the back and slid to the floor. My stomach somersaulted. I didn't even have to open it to know it was that birthday card from Dad, with his California phone number.

  As I held the envelope in my hand, I was tempted to pick up the phone and dial the eleven digits. Right here. Right now.

  Maybe I'd tell Dad that I'm not as fine as I say every time he asks.

  Or maybe I'd let him know that, despite everything, I miss spending time together, miss having a father.

  Or maybe I'd just say Hey, Jimmy D., what's new? like it was any other day.

  But I couldn't.

  Instead, I shoved the card back into the dictionary, stormed over to the mirror and studied my reflection. So maybe Moxie and I both have chestnut-colored hair. And I guess we have similar puppyish brown eyes. But only one of us is “bold and sassy,” and I'll tell you right now that it's not me.

  When the phone rang on Tuesday afternoon, I'd been tooling around the apartment, feeling sort of useless. Daytime television, I've now decided, caters to people with an IQ in the single digits. And if you weren't a Neanderthal to start out with, it gobbles up your brain cells quicker than a tank of vodka. But, of course, you park there, eyes fixed on the tube, thinking, This is truly rubbish; maybe I'll watch for seventeen more hours.
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  Mom had gone to Long Island for the day to visit her older brother, the one who called her Onion when she was little. His name is Steve and he's a high-powered businessman, constantly flashing his cell phone, Palm Pilot, corporate credit cards. And even though he has enough frequent-flier miles to jet to the moon, he's always remarking how Ithaca isn't exactly a key destination. Thus we're forced to pack up and visit him once a year. Dad was usually cool with it, feigning a weekend interest in digital gadgets or Aunt Mimi's new-butnever-used kitchen. And thanks to their mega-solar dish, I would see it as an opportunity to catch up on my Japanese soaps. But three days at Uncle Steve's never failed to leave Mom with hives, a pounding headache, a nervous tic or some combination of the three.

  If I were feeling compassionate, I'd say Uncle Steve has a short fuse. But if I were being completely honest, I'd say he's a jerk. For example, when Mom was applying to art school, Uncle Steve told her she'd be better off flushing her money down the toilet. And since he'd taken charge of the finances after their father had died, he refused to give her a penny. Luckily Mom received scholarships, but she worked herself to the bone waiting tables to cover room and board. Mom calls him strict. I call him the Original Asshole, but only to myself.

  Dad once explained to me that Mom continues reaching out to her brother to heal the wounds from her childhood. Supposedly, after her father collapsed from a heart attack at the age of forty-five, her mother closed up shop, aging decades overnight. Whenever I think about a thirteen-year-old Mom being left to raise herself, I feel sad. I feel sympathetic. But I don't feel any fonder toward the Original Asshole.

  So when Mom gave me the option of joining her today, I decided to pass. And better I did because Mom called from Penn Station to report that not only had she missed her train, but she'd forgotten her address book and Uncle Steve's number was unlisted, so would I let them know she'd be on the ten-forty instead? Which meant I had to chitchat with Aunt Mimi, who is so self-involved that even Mom laughed when I joked that her name should be changed to Me-Me.

  The phone didn't ring again until afternoon, while I was struggling to thread a new D-string on my guitar. Dad had showed me how to change the strings after they snap, but it's still a task to tune them.

  “Hello?”

  “Roz?”

  It was Shira.

  “No, it's Sammie.”

  “You sound exactly like your mother.”

  I glanced at my fingers. I've been playing guitar so much recently that I'm developing calluses on the fingertips of my left hand.

  “Is she around?”

  “No. She's visiting my uncle for the day.”

  “Damn.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “I'm actually having a little crisis. I'm stuck in a meeting for at least another hour and I'm supposed to pick up Becca from gymnastics at four o'clock. I can't reach Eli at the gardens, so I was hoping Roz could run over there and—”

  “I can do it.”

  “Really?” Shira paused. “It's all the way on the Upper East Side. Do you know how to get there?”

  “I've taken the crosstown bus a few times. I'll make it.”

  As Shira rattled off directions, I rummaged through my backpack for quarters, since Mom had taken the MetroCard with her.

  “Oh, Sammie, I don't know how to thank you.” Shira breathed a long sigh of relief. “You really are a lifesaver.”

  I was glad Eli wasn't in the background to hear that one.

  Becca did a double take when she waltzed out of gymnastics and I was waiting there, a little flushed from having racewalked fifteen blocks because I'd forgotten to ask the driver for a transfer to the uptown bus. The whole transit system still feels confusing, even with the maps I picked up in the subway station. Especially since the only bus I'd taken up until this summer was a banana-yellow school bus.

  It was such a beautiful afternoon that Becca and I decided to walk home. The sun was shining, my blisters were nearly gone and, I have to say, it was a relief to hear someone else's voice, to get my mind off things. It's been almost a week since Mom's bombed interviews. And since she hasn't heard a peep from any of them, she's convinced that she's utterly unemployable in today's market. Whenever I think about it, I launch into a full-scale anxiety attack. Especially at night, when I lie in bed, feeling like I'll never be able to take another deep breath.

  But as Becca and I walked across Central Park, I actually could have passed for a relaxed human being. It was only as we rode up in the elevator that I tensed up again. What if Eli is home from the gardens already? I still feel weird that I lied to him about the Fourth of July. Mom promised to cover for me when she grabbed Indian food with Shira a few nights ago. I was actually pretty surprised, seeing that she was the one who brought it up.

  You know I'm the Abe Lincoln of honesty, Mom said as she twisted her hair into a comb on the back of her head. But if Shira asks, I'll say you had plans with a friend.

  The Rosenthals' apartment turned out to be empty and silent. Part of me felt disappointed, though I can't explain why. It's like I'd somehow been looking forward to all hell breaking loose as I blundered over my words when Eli asked where I'd gone last weekend. Which is much more Kitty Lundquist than Sammie Davis. Kitty lives in a soap opera, complete with lust and betrayal and seven simultaneous subplots. I tend toward the Sunday Night Disney Movie: practical, predictable, pathetically G-rated.

  As I lingered in the foyer, Becca bounded into the kitchen. “Cherry or grape?”

  I wasn't sure what she was talking about so I just said, “Whatever you're having.”

  Becca reappeared with two purple Popsicles. As she handed one to me, she exclaimed, “I have to say, I like you a lot more than Jenna!”

  “Jenna?”

  “Oops.” Becca began slurping at her Popsicle. “I've said too much already. Eli would murder me if he knew I—”

  Becca clamped her hand over her violet-stained lips, leaving me bursting with curiosity. Who is Jenna? And why can't Becca tell me about her? Damn! Kitty would know just how to girl-talk Becca, to initiate a giggly bonding session until all the secrets spilled out. I, on the other hand, shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, in a fabricated attempt at I couldn't care less.

  We'd been home for about a half hour when Shira flew through the door, toting two grocery bags and a long, slim baguette wrapped in white paper. Kicking off her sandals, she headed for the kitchen. Becca and I trailed after her.

  “Thank you so much, Sammie.” Shira hauled a gallon of milk into the fridge.

  “No problem.”

  I leaned against the counter. Becca climbed onto a tall stool.

  “Tuesdays are always my hard day,” Shira explained as she unpacked the groceries. “I have an all-staff meeting downtown. One of those things I just can't get out of.”

  “I can pick up Becca next week too, if you want.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” Becca sprang off her stool and began jumping up and down.

  Shira laughed. “I know someone who'd like that.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”

  “Of course, I'd pay you to do it.”

  “You don't have to.” I began fiddling with a rubber band that had been on the counter.

  Shira rooted through her shoulder bag. As she held some bills in my direction, I tried not to look at them, but I think I glimpsed a five and a bunch of ones.

  “I insist.” Shira pressed the money into my hand.

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank you.” Shira paused. “Would you like to stay for dinner, by the way?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” Becca cried.

  “Ummm, I—I …,” I stammered.

  “It's not going to be much, just some leftover gazpacho,” Shira said, “and Eli is having dinner at a friend's.”

  The rubber band snapped out of my hand, flew across the kitchen and struck a low cupboard. I shot a glance at Shira. Does she think I don't want to see Eli? Or maybe he doesn't want to see m
e? Or maybe this has something to do with Jenna. …

  “So we need to fill our teenager quota,” Shira added.

  Becca's eyes darted back and forth between Shira and me.

  “Okay,” I finally said, “sure.”

  “Great.” Shira smiled. “You can make the salad.”

  As I broke apart leaves of romaine lettuce, Shira shepherded Becca into the shower. I kept thinking about this time, three or four years ago, when Mom had made gazpacho. It's a chilled Spanish soup that's perfect on hot days. By mistake, I'd asked for a second helping of gestapo, which made Mom and Dad laugh so hard they'd almost choked on their iced coffees. Dad had finally explained that the gestapo were the German secret police during the Nazi regime, notorious for their brutality. Right continent, at least, Mom had added, wiping her eyes.

  “Everything okay in here?” Shira asked as she reappeared in the kitchen.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  Shira began slicing the baguette onto a wooden cutting board. As I rinsed the lettuce, I placed the clean leaves in the strainer she'd given me.

  “How are things going, Sammie?”

  I froze, letting the chilly water trickle over my fingers.

  “What do you mean?”

  Shira rested the bread knife in the middle of the loaf.

  “I know this is a particularly hard time for Roz right now.” She paused. “All these changes.” She paused again. “I just wanted to see how you're coping with things.”

  My face scrunched up like I was going to bawl. I don't get this feeling very often, but when I do, I know exactly what it is. Five more seconds and I'm a goner.

  “You may be okay,” Shira quickly added. “I don't want to …”

  As her voice trailed off, I swallowed several times and repeated to myself: Control, control, control, control, control.

  “Yeah, I'm okay,” I finally mumbled. Then I diverted my attention to a clump of dirt, scrubbing as if my life depended upon its removal.